


Pallbearer

by Solar_Sylvilagus



Series: Please Don't Break The Characters [3]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, also no beta-reader we're still dying like fools, in the words of McKee from the discord, the observant reader will notice that nothing actually happens at all, this is a lot of prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 13:56:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17305856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solar_Sylvilagus/pseuds/Solar_Sylvilagus
Summary: Ramblings from Wendy about things.That's literally the only way I can describe this.





	Pallbearer

**Author's Note:**

> I still love the headcanon that Wendy went to the Constant of her own volition. I mention this cause it is important to Maxwell and Wendy's dynamic, but said headcanon doesn't feature in this work cause. Maxwell's also not really in this work.
> 
> Prose kinda about/around Wendy than her actually. Ya know. Being the main character. It's a very detached style. It wasn't what I set out to do, but I didn't actually have a plan in the first place, so.

Memories of Mother were difficult to come by. She’d been sick when Wendy and Abigail were born, and while she’d gotten better for a little while, she’d still died when the girls were very young. Sometimes, if Wendy tried very hard, she could remember a few things. Like that Mother never cooked, even when she was well enough to do so. She’d hated it, and they had help to do that for them.

But good women of proper education were supposed to know how to cook, so of course Wendy was taught how. And she’d liked it, a bit. Mostly she’d liked throwing flour at Abigail and making a mess, which made Mother mad.

Mother never let them bake after they’d finished their lessons. Nor did she want them to have sweets.

Electricity had long since stopped actively crackling from the glass to her fingers, but the milk gotten from the Volt Goats still had stray static bolts zipping through it. That, and it had begun to go warm being clutched in her hands.

Cookies may not fill the hole in her heart, but she would still eat them.

* * *

Her memories of Uncle William were sometimes blurrier than of Mother. Mother had been there a lot more, but Uncle William had been _there_ a lot more. Mother died slowly in her bed. Uncle William sent her a pack of marked cards so that she could beat Father in card games easier. Mother said chocolate would give them acne. Uncle William sent a box of candies anyway, with the help of father. 

She couldn’t remember what his face looked like, but there had been pictures around the house. And it hadn’t been difficult, when looking at the posters, to see that “Maxwell the Great” had a definite resemblance to her uncle. But then again, that wasn’t a mystery. While father hadn’t said much about the few letters he’d exchanged with Uncle Will since the train crash, he was obviously concerned.

 

They never did get to see the show, however.

* * *

Being sick had run in the family, both on her father’s side and on her mother’s side. So when Abigail eventually came down with the same thing that’d killed their mother, it wasn’t all that unexpected.

At first, they’d been hopeful. Abigail had sat up in bed and played cards and complained of boredom while laying in her bed. But then things got worse, as they often do.

When the funeral was over, and Wendy’s father locked himself in his office, presumably to avoid crying in front of his living daughter, Wendy had sat on her bed and held the carnation she’d taken from a funeral bouquet.

It was washed out and wilted from the summer heat, which is why she had taken it home with her. Like how Abigail had been pale and curled and thin once the fever had finished.

 

The next day when Wendy had come down to breakfast wearing red ribbons instead of yellow, her father had yelled at her.

* * *

 

Before she had opened the portal, Wendy had spent hours sitting on her bed, whispering with the radio that spoke in her Uncle’s voice. She told him how father had been very sad since Mother and Abigail and Uncle himself had left. And how he was home less and less. How she could hear him crying at night.

Uncle said he couldn’t come back, though he did offer words of comfort. He sung lullabies as she fell asleep, like father used to. They played board games, usually chess, with her playing both sides at his direction. And whenever he caught her sneakily fudging his moves, he only laughed.

He also told stories. Stories of where he was. Of how the world was different.

Of how the dead lived on as ghosts.

He talked her through her first sacrifice to Abigail and brushed off her thanks as she could finally see her sister again.

 

* * *

 

When she met him, finally met him, on even ground, her first thought was that he was a lot wrinklier than he had been in the photos. Of course, she didn’t say that out loud. That would be mean.

The first thing he said to her was to call him Maxwell. That he wasn’t William anymore.

Which was fine with her. She was a far cry from the Wendy she had been.


End file.
